


Home is where the plants are

by Beginte



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, because how else do you tag those two, developing established relationship, stealthily moving in, the beginning of the rest of their lives, the road to South Downs Cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: There's a plant by one of the windows. Aziraphale can't recall getting a plant. He's almost sure he didn't get a plant.-Or: they're enjoying the beginning of the rest of their lives and Crowley repeatedly distracts Aziraphale to prevent him from noticing that he's moving in, one plant and pair of skinny jeans at a time.





	Home is where the plants are

For a while, they spend their days doing a bit of everything.

Crowley takes Aziraphale to the opera; Aziraphale takes Crowley to the theatre. They take leisurely trips to the countryside. They have quiet walks and conversations that go on for days. There are breakfasts at the Sky Garden, lunches at the Savoy, dinners at the Ritz and picnics in St James’s Park.

Little of what they do is new, but that’s what’s so lovely, to Aziraphale’s mind. They can carry on, and not just as they’ve always been, but as they’ve always wished to be. It’s all so familiar and well-loved that all Aziraphale wants to do is sink into it –- and so he does. And the loveliest thing is, they get to do it _more_. They spend whole days together and they spend _all_ their days together, usually only parting when Crowley wants to sleep; Aziraphale isn't one for sleeping, so he carries on re-shelving and cataloguing his restored (and altered) inventory. Adam has made some rather interesting changes, and while they mostly aren’t Aziraphale’s style, the whole process is thoroughly enjoyable.

And while little of what he and Crowley do with their days is new, they do have a slightly new way of going about it all. They no longer worry about the head offices, no longer look over their shoulder. Little gestures of affection made in public -- they no longer feel like a risk. Crowley lounges wholeheartedly against him on their picnic blanket. Aziraphale never hesitates to take his arm or touch him fondly mid-conversation. There are bites (or ostentatiously demonic licks) stolen of each other’s ice cream. Not to mention the stray kisses here and there.

(That… that bit is slightly new. Aziraphale loves it utterly and completely, and it already feels right and familiar, more natural than the breathing they don’t actually need.)

There are other things, too. Things that maybe could be described as new but aren’t, not wholly, Aziraphale thinks. They’re more like… alterations. Small changes made to a comfortable set of clothes to make it more up to the task. New ways of expressing things that have been if not always, then for a very long time indeed.

‘ _Dear boy’_ morphs into ‘ _dear’_ , easy as breathing, and into ‘ _darling’_ easier still. ‘ _Angel’_ stays, much to Aziraphale’s pleasure, but becomes occasionally interchangeable with a drawled ‘ _sweetheart’_ made to sound sarcastic but never coming anywhere near managing it.

Touches linger; caresses move from arms to shoulders to the face and sometimes hair. (Crowley’s hair is so very lovely to touch, like carding one’s hand through sunset and spice.)

Their life becomes covered with a patina of a new colour that Aziraphale didn’t know could exist before (but which he very ardently, very quietly longed for).

* * *

There's a plant by one of the windows. Aziraphale can't recall getting a plant. He's almost sure he didn't get a plant.

It's a... yes, it's a succulent. A handsome little chappie, too, turning its plump leaves towards the sun and contently basking in the warmth.

Aziraphale frowns in confusion, watching it from his spot on the sofa. He definitely doesn't recall getting that plant -- or _a_ plant, for that matter, not for the last... oh, 300 years or so. Maybe it had been one of Adam's additions. Was it there when he stepped into his bookshop for the first time after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't?

He's just about to contemplate the plant in earnest, but Crowley gets up from his spot by the other window, where he's been making people in the street chase futilely after runaway coins, and drops himself nonchalantly onto the sofa, right beside Aziraphale. He stretches his long legs out, draping them over the armrest, and leans back against Aziraphale's side.

"Nice and comfy, dear?" Aziraphale asks, aiming for some sarcasm but falling hopelessly short.

"Eh. You could budge up a little," Crowley says, pushing back against Aziraphale's side to get more room.

Aziraphale tuts.

"You cheeky old serpent."

Crowley grins, taking his sunglasses off and adding them to the pile of clutter on a nearby table. He rolls his shoulders -- it's a long and languid sort of movement, very serpentine and travelling down his spine, from his shoulders to his hips, in a way that might make Aziraphale blush (and nearly does).

"Wake me up when it's time for dinner, yeah?"

"Mm."

Aziraphale goes back to his book; minutes tick past, slowly lumping into an hour, then two; Aziraphale isn't sure how many, exactly. It doesn't matter: he's got his bookshop, a good book, a cup of tea which hasn't yet realised it should have gone cold long ago, and, oh, he's got _Crowley_.

And he does have him, doesn't he. Finally, properly, wholly and at long, long last. He's got Crowley right here beside him, with no nerves or hesitation. None of those dreadful worries about what they're both risking by their association.

He closes his book for a moment and peers at Crowley pressed so snug and close against him, asleep. Oh, he's ever so dear.

He now understands why humans call it 'making love' -- oh, because he loves Crowley so very, very much. And he wants to love him in every way available, cherish him in every sense and dimension of their existence. And he did. He took Crowley to bed (although Crowley's professional pride would make him insist that he was the one to instigate the whole thing, temptation and all) and loved him headily, thoroughly, endlessly, and with great attention to detail. The closeness of it -- oh, it was so lovely to have Crowley so _close_.

Crowley shifts, briefly floating up to the surface of his nap before settling and sinking back down; his sunset-red hair brushes Aziraphale's cheek and, just like with the picnics in St James's Park, Aziraphale sees no reason to resist, not anymore. He presses a kiss to the top of Crowley's head, and while he's there, he takes a good whiff.

Oh, honestly, it was so... _outrageous_ of Sandalphon to describe Crowley's lingering scent as _evil_. Aziraphale, underneath the bubbling panic, had found that very offensive. (And honestly, it was a bit rich coming from someone who perpetually smells like entirely too much lilac and talcum powder!)

No, Crowley doesn't smell _evil_. He smells like... like spice, the sort that warms the blood, and a bit like leather, the flame of a beeswax candle, a dab of something expensive, and just a dash of forty-miles-over-the-speed-limit.

He spends a while longer watching Crowley sleep -- minutes and hours don't matter much when one is an ethereal being with over six thousand years' worth of them under one's belt -- and then goes back to his book.

Yes. It's all so very, very lovely at last.

* * *

"My point is," says Crowley, but then pauses to lick the strawberries-and-cream crepe filling from his fingers and somehow managing to do it with relish and swagger. "My point is, you were right -- which is why I'm right!"

It's a lovely late summer's day, and St James's Park is lazy in its afternoon reverie. People mill slowly about, bumblebees (whose numbers Adam seems to have increased, what a good lad) buzz drowsily in the grass, and even the ducks don't seem too keen on chasing after bread.

Aziraphale and Crowley have a nice spot under a tree which Aziraphale has fondly watched grow over the years; leaning against its trunk feels nice and solid, and all the more relaxing for the lovely shape of Crowley sprawled on the picnic blanket, his head in Aziraphale's lap, because they can finally do that sort of thing. Aziraphale closes his eyes for a moment, just to bask in it.

"I was right when, dear?"

"Oh, around 1920. You know, that time when you said that humans needed to be capable of wickedness in order to be holy, or something."

"And how does that make _you_ right?" Aziraphale asks, generously overlooking the implication that the only time he happened to be right was in 1920.

"Because I said there's nothing so terrible about knowing the difference between right and wrong! And I said that waaaaay earlier -- on that Eden wall."

"So?"

"So, why punish them for it?"

Aziraphale considers this for a moment.

"It's-"

"Ineffable, yeah," Crowley aims a nut at a nearby squirrel. "But think about it -- we saved the Ineffable Plan because we _knew_ the difference between right and wrong! Come on, angel, you _knew_ they were wrong to want that war! We both did! And _we_ did the _right_ thing because we _knew the difference_!"

"We did," Aziraphale ventures slowly, having the distinct feeling he's walking right into something, but not quite sure what. "But!" he holds up a finger in triumph. "We are not humans!"

"Oh, angel," Crowley says with the sort of fondness one usually reserves for something terribly entertaining. He reaches into the basket. "Here. Have an apple."

It's a lovely picnic, all in all. They spend the day. Somewhere beyond the buildings and the trees the sun sets and the air fills with greyish-purple light as it dims. They stay a while after that, and then pack their basket and head back to the Bentley as the streetlights flicker on.

Crowley drives them back to the bookshop; he comes in, like he's done thousands of times, only nowadays Aziraphale doesn't need to make a show of asking him in.

"I'll take it back upstairs," Crowley says, swinging the basket idly once Aziraphale empties it of leftovers.

"Oh, thank you, that's very kind." Aziraphale smiles over an armful of containers. Crowley hisses at him.

"What did I tell you about four-letter words, angel," he snarls, scowling behind his sunglasses, but Aziraphale can tell the irritation is more of a mask meant to hide something else entirely, so he smiles indulgently.

"Really, my dear, I think the game's rather up at this point. You helped _save the world_. You _talked me into_ trying to save the world!"

"Yeah, purely selfish, that," Crowley says, swinging the basket around for emphasis. "Completely selfish through and through, that's me."

"Really, Crowley," Aziraphale scoffs, but doesn't try to stop smiling.

"Really, sweetheart," Crowley sing-songs as he saunters away with the basket, hips swaying.

Aziraphale tuts at him, but his heart (despite not technically needing to move) flutters for a good few minutes after that, while he busies himself convincing his small kitchen's equally small fridge that it's big enough to house all the leftovers from their picnic.

It's a few hours later that he follows Crowley upstairs, because there's something jolly interesting in today's paper, and he's quite sure he never heard Crowley come down.

"Crowley, there's this wonderful new event at Royal Albert Hall, and I was- oh, dear!" he says, startled as Crowley springs sitting up in Aziraphale's never-used bed.

His hair is mussed into wild spikes (although it quickly remembers itself and once again becomes an, admittedly, rather stylish do), and his striking eyes are wide and looking wildly about the room before settling on Aziraphale and focusing with considerable effort.

"Oh, my dear, I am so sorry," Aziraphale frets. "I didn't know you were sleeping."

"Nnn..." says Crowley. " 's alright, angel." He drops back onto the pillows (Aziraphale is almost sure this bed only had one pillow last time he looked) and rubs his eyes. "What's at Royal Albert Hall?"

"Oh," Aziraphale says again, perking up, and launches into the specifics of the concert -- it's an old favourite of theirs, a Vivaldi, full of his rich and daring notes, but performed in a modern way. "I thought it'd be something _you'd_ especially like, dear. A violinist giving it that punky-rocky touch and all."

"Punky-rocky," Crowley says slowly, eyes gleaming and his mouth not really bothering to hide a thoroughly amused -- and every so slightly mocking -- smile.

"Hush, you," Aziraphale huffs. "You know what I mean."

"Yessss, amazingly enough, I do. Alright, angel. Count me in."

"Lovely!" Aziraphale beams. "I'll make a phone call about the tickets."

"Angel, you do know you don't _have to_ -"

"Oh, I know, but it's one of those lovely little human things. The tickets will be there, I'll make sure of that, but I do want to call."

Crowley looks like he's trying to suppress a fond gaze into a grimace; Aziraphale is intimately familiar with this look.

"Well. I'll let you get back to your nap, then."

"Yeah, thanks," Crowley replies, in a slightly odd voice, like there's something stuck in his throat.

Aziraphale casts another look about the room on his way out -- funny, he could have sworn there had been more clutter here. Maybe it's Adam's doing, but for some reason it doesn't feel like this is the case. No, there's something more... _real_ about this. And he's fairly sure Adam wouldn't give him two pairs of black skinny jeans slung nonchalantly over a Queen Anne chair -- that's much more Crowley's style. In fact, those _are_ Crowley's jeans, come to think of it. And the bed has new sheets, Aziraphale hasn't bought new sheets for this bed since opening the shop in 1800, and these sheets are sleek and dark- and is that _silk_?

"You know, angel, I've been thinking," says Crowley a little suddenly, startling Aziraphale out of his train of thought. "We should travel."

"Travel, dear?"

"Yeah. You know, properly, for pleasure, not because we've got tempting and thwarting to do, so we might as well make a weekend of it."

"Well- that does sound nice," Aziraphale admits, allowing the idea to carry him away for a moment. "But I haven't finished cataloguing yet! Adam has made some really, er... surprising changes, and I'd like to have it all settled and tip-top before we go nipping off somewhere for who knows how long."

Crowley gets to his knees and somehow manages to nonchalantly cross the mattress.

"Italy, angel."

"Oh... oh- well..."

"Milan... _Rome_." Crowley slips closer, balancing as he stands in socked feet on the edge of the bed, and all Aziraphale can do is wrap his arms around Crowley's waist to hold him steady, head tipped back and gaze caught by those familiar, spellbinding eyes. Crowley smiles and suddenly Aziraphale knows exactly why Eve ate that apple. "Venice," Crowley hisses just the tiniest bit, forearms draping over Aziraphale's shoulders, long fingers playing with the hair on the nape of Aziraphale's neck.

"Oh..." is all Aziraphale can say before he melts into Crowley's kiss.

* * *

They go to Italy. Not to tempt and thwart, but just to... _be_ there.

They start with lunch in Milan, across the plaza from the Milan Cathedral; the lunch lingers and slips into dinner as light shifts and casts a warm, ethereal glow onto ornate walls of pale stone; Crowley, pleased, turns his face towards the sun, his red hair shimmering and ablaze.

Crowley does like to bask in the sun -- it's quite endearingly serpentine, and Aziraphale hides his fond smile in his drink, because he doesn't want Crowley to scowl and stop enjoying himself when he so clearly and wonderfully is.

They talk about the city and crossing paths here across the centuries; they reminisce past tempting and thwarting, recall people, burst into giddy excitement as together they reconstruct buildings and places, voices rising, smiles beaming, words and hands flying.

Venice -- oh, Venice is a _dream_. Not that Aziraphale is any great authority on dreams, but he does, secretly, have considerable experience daydreaming.

The city is almost completely unchanged: bathed in warm light, with flashes of sunlight reflecting in the water lapping against crumbling buildings. Gondolas glide down the myriad of canals, vendors bustle with their goods and, miraculously, there are much fewer tourists than there would normally be.

Aziraphale leans a little over the railing to watch a boat make its way out from under the bridge they're standing on. The sun is shining and Crowley's freckles come up quite nicely. (Strictly speaking, they don't need to, but somewhere in the back of his mind Crowley rather fancies they should, and so they hurriedly do, snapping up the opportunity.)

When Crowley turns to look at him again, Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley's.

"My dear," he says, suddenly overcome with all the freedom and love that now fills his life. "I do love you so terribly much."

He's said it so many times since the world didn't end, and he adores saying it, being able to say it whenever he likes, along with so many other things he's always longed to say without fear. And he knows Crowley loves hearing it, basking in it like a happy snake in the afternoon sun. And he's told Aziraphale the most wonderful things in return.

"Yeah," he says now, and Aziraphale doesn't need to see through his sunglasses to know his eyes are fond. "Love you too, angel."

If Venice is a dream, then Rome is a memory.

They spend days walking down old streets that feel eerily familiar and yet so different; each step stirs something distant and half-forgotten, moving it vaguely to the forefront, shedding the dust of piled-up years covering it. They'd spent centuries living in this city, mapping out its every new nook and cranny as it sprawled outwards and inwards across time. It doesn't feel much like home anymore, but it does feel wonderfully familiar, one of the few cities that has kept so much of what they once knew, despite centuries moving through it.

The Forum though... that one doesn't sit very well with Aziraphale. The state of it...

He still remembers it bustling and teeming with life. There! He used to buy the loveliest cotton garments just over there, in a stall squeezed in between two temples. The temples are little more than rows of crumbled pillars now, and the stall has evaporated from reality. Aziraphale is probably the only creature alive in today's world who knows it had once been there at all.

He hasn't been to Rome since the early 1700s, and while Forum Romanum already was in ruins back then, it still was... filled with marketplace commotion and felt quite firmly connected to what it had been in its prime.

Now...  now it's so very different.

He takes Crowley's hand, because for a moment it all gets too overwhelming, too much. Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's hand and pulls him closer.

Aziraphale thinks he almost doesn't want to visit the Forum too often anymore, because each sight of it in ruins washes away another layer of the colour and vibrancy it still has in his memory.

Crowley must sense his consternation or feel something similar, because he sniffs, pulls him by their joined hands, and says:

"Come on, angel. Let's get us some ice cream."

* * *

Italy is lovely, but it's nice to come home, so when they do, Aziraphale sinks into his bookshop with much the same sort of happy sigh that Crowley pretended not to give when sinking into the Bentley's seat to give Aziraphale a lift home.

But then Crowley goes back to his flat to check on his plants (or, as he puts it, to see how much they've let themselves go in his absence), and as the door closes behind him, Aziraphale rather suddenly finds that the bookshop, for all the stacks of books and clutter filling it, feels quite empty around him.

Another benefit of travel is that, upon returning from it, one sees one's home more clearly. Certain details that used to slip under the radar, as it were, suddenly become noticeable.

Like a plant by the window. And another plant by the other window. And yet another on the winding staircase leading upstairs, a bounty of green tendrils spilling down in a cascade over the railing. Or a pair of snakeskin shoes tucked into a corner by the bedroom door upstairs.

Aziraphale stands in the doorway and gives the bedroom a look, a proper, lengthy Look -- the sort of Look made for noticing things. Not a cursory glance to make sure it's all there or an inattentive sort of registering it as a background for Crowley sprawled napping on the bed.

And it's only now that, ironically enough, with Crowley physically absent, Aziraphale can see his presence here more clearly than ever before.

More plants -- that's the first thing he notices. Crowley's clothes, some strewn about the bed and the chair (also, the chair seems to have shed its Queen Anne identity and become a black leather and gilded Baroque frames affair, definitely not Aziraphale's style), others peeking out of the wardrobe. Aziraphale's own clutter is very much still here, but it's so much neater, carefully stacked and stored in clever piles to make room-

Oh, yes, _room!_

The whole room is miraculously larger! Not by much, no great extravagance, but it is miraculously enlarged; Aziraphale can feel it when he touches a wall, can feel, nearly _taste_ the atoms being rearranged and manufactured instead of, well, _organic_ would be the word, he supposes.

And there, all over, _permeating it_ , is such a sense of _love_...!

Oh, oh, it all makes sense now! And Crowley has been distracting Aziraphale from noticing, and that simply won't _do_! No, Crowley must know that Aziraphale wants him here with every fibre of his being!

Two equally strong impulses spark simultaneously in Aziraphale's core and bump into each other on the way to his brain, causing him to wiggle, wringing his hands in indecision.

Impulse One dictates that Aziraphale should take advantage of Crowley's absence and get to work clearing out as much of his own clutter as possible so that Crowley has a proper bedroom, not just a roughly-tidied version of Aziraphale's glorified storage space with a bed.

Impulse Two informs Aziraphale that this type of surprise might end up causing a flight risk and, much more importantly, Impulse Two is an overwhelming, _overflowing_ need to shower Crowley with love and explain just how much Aziraphale wants to operate a bookshop that also happens to permanently house one particular demon upstairs.

After a good few more minutes of hand-wringing and spinning in directionless circles, Aziraphale finds himself propelled by Impulse Two, and he's on his way to Crowley's flat almost before he realises it.

* * *

Aziraphale chooses to walk instead of travelling by taxi or a quick miracle, because this way he gets to tread through Crowley's love with every step, all the way to his door.

Much like Anathema couldn't see Adam's aura because it spanned so vast across space, so does Crowley's love span across time itself. For millennia Aziraphale (to his immense mortification and embarrassment about it later on) couldn't properly pick it up because it had simply _always been there_. Crowley's love was -- and is -- a constant, ageless like a diamond, unyielding, and ever-thrumming through every atom of Aziraphale's being and transcending his very soul and angelic grace.

Crowley's love for him outspans all of London itself. It burns and radiates the fiercest here, because this is where they both have made their home. But if Aziraphale closes his eyes and reaches out beyond his own self, he can feel Crowley's love weaving an intricate map across time and space itself.

It flares in 16th century Venice and 17th century Florence, burns and blazes across all of republican and imperial Rome, lingers unendingly in the most ancient nooks of Egypt. It snakes the length of Alexander's conquests, surges down the flow of the mighty Bosporus, and sings along where the walls of Troy once stood tall.

Everywhere they met, Crowley's love for him burned out a star on this intangible map and dragged a warm, glittering trail into their next reunion.

Just like humans can't tell their own smell, Aziraphale can't sense his own love this way, but he knows it's there, scattered across the ages, hand in hand with Crowley's.

It's a bit of a buzz, to be honest, walking so consciously through Crowley's love, so Aziraphale needs a moment when he finally reaches his door. The last thing he needs right now is to bungle it all up because he's tipsy on love. What he needs is to think about how to approach the subject of moving in. Crowley... well, Crowley is very attached to the idea that he's cool. And that has consequences -- namely, Crowley always trying to _play_ everything cool. Aziraphale very much isn't in the mood for that right now.

Oh, to- Somewhere with it, they sorted out the Armageddon together, they can surely deal with this!

Thus emboldened, Aziraphale rings the doorbell with possibly more confidence than his lack of any plan should warrant.

Crowley opens the door, sunglasses on his face and a plant mister in hand.

"Angel!" he says, surprised. "Something wrong?"

"Oh, no, my dear. Quite the opposite -- everything is so very _right_ \-- do you know what I mean?"

"Err... not really," Crowley says, scratching his chin with the plant mister. "But, you know, come in."

Aziraphale does, smiling when Crowley takes off his sunglasses, because he loves Crowley's golden eyes and the deep, implicit trust that comes with being allowed to see them so often and so naturally, so without ceremony.

"How are the plants?" he asks, hopeful that some small talk might, er, grease the wheels.

"Decent, I suppose," Crowley sniffs. "There are some slackers, _but I'll whip them into shape soon enough!"_ he yells in the direction of the plants. "So," he turns back towards Aziraphale, grinning pleasantly as he sets the plant mister aside. "Missed me that much, angel?"

"Oh, yes, you see, that's the thing," Aziraphale perks up, seizing the opening. "I've been thinking about- well, about _us_ , I suppose..."

"Right... Okay..." Crowley goes very, very still, and oh, no no no no no, this is _not_ the direction Aziraphale wanted him to go!

"My dear... darling..." He takes Crowley's hands in his, just to make sure he doesn't bolt. "I think... I think your Mona Lisa sketch will look very nice over the bedroom fireplace. Or anywhere else you'd like -- upstairs or in the bookshop."

Crowley blinks, and Aziraphale holds his breath.

"...oh," Crowley finally says. "Er... you sure?"

Aziraphale pulls himself closer by their hands.

"Absolutely."

"Right. Okay, then."

Crowley shifts, eyes flicking to the sides, as if unsure what to do now, and then he opts for kissing Aziraphale soundly, and Aziraphale clings on, clings on...

"My dear," he whispers when they part just enough to press their foreheads together. "I want you with me, always. Unless- oh, unless now I'm the one going too fast?" he frets, because he does often assume things, and Crowley deserves better than that.

But Crowley grins and pulls back, arms snaking round Aziraphale's not inconsiderable waist.

"Nah," he says. "I mean, I'll keep my flat, no reason to get rid of it. And I'll have to train you on how to approach my plants," he adds, shooting a brief glare at a nearby dracaena which has the good sense to tremble with fear. "Can't have you _cooing_ and spreading your angelic love and all. You've got to be _firm_ with them, angel, otherwise it's leaf spots and bad posture all over the place."

Aziraphale smiles.

"Well, my dear. Let's- let's drink to it, then."

* * *

Not much changes in any practical aspect. They still spend their days much in the same way as they have so far, only now, more often than not, their mornings begin with a breakfast had together in Aziraphale's much too tiny kitchen. Aziraphale still reads through the night, although now he sometimes does it in the upstairs bed, sitting beside Crowley sprawling in his sleep. More of Crowley's plants and clothes appear all over upstairs, and some of his art collection makes its way here too.

(Not That Sculpture though, not yet, and Aziraphale is prepared to have Opinions about where it goes.)

It all keeps on going, not too slow and not too fast, and perhaps a little cluttered, until something in the newspaper catches Aziraphale's eye.

Not many people put up adverts in the papers nowadays, which is a shame, because it has always been Aziraphale's favourite part of it: the congratulations and the celebrations, the stories told through homes offered for sale, the cryptic messages exchanged between friends and lovers. But there are still some adverts, and there are local newspapers. And one local advert, a bit to its own surprise, finds itself printed in Aziraphale's regular newspaper and delivered to his bookshop's door one sunny Wednesday.

It's an advert of a cottage for sale -- a proper, quiet, English cottage, and something about it just tugs at Aziraphale, and he spends the whole afternoon reading and re-reading the advert and going on his (still perfectly serviceable, thank you, Crowley) computer to look up more pictures and information. And there he stays, poring over the lovely photographs, making quiet sounds of delight at the vast garden (oh, Crowley will love the garden, there's even room for a sizeable greenhouse) and the spacious study with built-in bookshelves that will make the perfect home library.

(He makes sure to close it all before Crowley comes back from whatever spot of mischief he'd felt like going out for. He's not exactly sure why, but he has the feeling it's the same impulse that had made Crowley bring his plants one by one when Aziraphale wasn't looking.)

Aziraphale isn't built for speed. He isn't one to leap into things, no matter how much he sometimes would like to. No, he needs to let things brew for a while, considering them from different angles, growing used to them, before finally slipping into them like into something already half-familiar.

And when, soon enough, this day comes, he takes the carefully kept newspaper section in his hands and goes upstairs to tell Crowley all about it and ask if maybe, if he would like...

Crowley is there, in the bedroom, muttering something particularly dreadful to an orchid, when Aziraphale knocks on the doorframe.

"Angel," Crowley says. "Hello."

"Are you busy?"

"No... nothing that I can't pick up _right where I left off_ ," he hisses menacingly at the orchid.

"Ah. Splendid! My dear, about you moving in-"

"Yeah, that..." Crowley says, giving the impression of scratching his head without actually doing it. "I don't think it's gonna work here, angel."

"...Oh," says Aziraphale in a very small voice, because something bright seems to float out of him, leaving him feeling very small indeed. His eyes drop to the floor, fingers curling in the newspaper pages. "I see."

"Yeah," Crowley says again with a wince. "I mean, it works part-time, but all your stuff is here, and mine won't fit anywhere else anymore, and it's all getting messy, really."

Aziraphale attempts a polite smile that comes out brittle.

"Yes. Quite, quite."

"And it's a bit cramped, with both of us here full time."

"Oh, yes. Cramped. Definitely," Aziraphale soldiers on, trying for light-hearted but increasingly tilting towards miserable.

Crowley nods.

"So... I was thinking..." He reaches into the pocket of his trousers, which are entirely too tight to possibly have room for a mobile phone, but he pulls one out anyway. A sleek and slim model. Nice big screen. All black, of course. Very cutting edge, very Crowley. "Maybe we could... you know. Get another place. Together."

Aziraphale gasps, because Crowley said 'together', get a place 'together', and this already fizzles bright and overwhelming all over inside him, spreading warmth and joy through his atoms, but then he sees the picture on the phone that Crowley holds out for Aziraphale to take, and his mind just trips over its own feet and stutters into motionless silence.

It's a cottage.

A very familiar cottage, in fact, shown in an equally familiar picture, and given a familiar address.

It's- oh, it's just-

Aziraphale's wonder-induced silence must go on for quite a bit, because Crowley shifts, uncertain.

"I'm not saying give up the bookshop," he says hurriedly. "I mean, you've had it for over 200 years, angel, I just... I just thought we could get a new place, not _instead_ of what we have, but _also_ , you know. And just spend as much time there as we want. We could move there, or, or... we could just go there on the weekends. I- oh, bless it, I don't _mean_ to go too fast, Aziraphale."

And that, the worry and the _regret_ jolts Aziraphale out of his stupor.

"No!" he blurts out, perhaps too urgently. "No, not no, I mean- oh, darn it all, darling, _look_!" he says and simply thrusts the newspaper at Crowley.

And Crowley does look, at the very same cottage he's just shown Aziraphale on his phone, and his golden eyes go wide, his mouth forming a perfect 'o'.

They look up at each other, clutching each other's versions of the same advert. Aziraphale wonders what is showing on his face, because what he can see on Crowley's is absolutely beautiful.

And then Crowley smiles at him, giddy with a good joke, bright and brimming with a future spent together gardening and beachcombing for funny pebbles and sharing a space wholly and completely _theirs_ , and says:

"Well, I'll be blessed!"

**Author's Note:**

> Those idiots ruined me, enjoy the product of this ruin. Comments shine the light upon my soul.


End file.
